By The Light of A Candle
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there. Erik/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Author's Note: **My first phanfic...it's an idea I've been playing with for a while now. Enjoy.

* * *

**Paris 1874**

**April**

_Light is precious in world so dark_

* * *

It is dawn, and the sky is golden. Birds sing from the budding trees, heralding the entrance of the sun in all its bright glory. A girl sits alone on the deserted steps of the newly-rebuilt Opera Populaire, trailing her thin fingers along a vein of black in the pure white marble.

A plump woman dressed in black stands in a doorway to the side of the main entrance. "Isabelle Moreau?" she calls. The girl's head jerks up, and she looks around at the woman. The sunlight glints off the copper streaks in her curly brown hair. "Come on then," the woman beckons, impatience pouring off her like water. "I haven't got all day."

Isabelle rises slowly, picking up the worn sackcloth bag sitting next to her. She climbs the steps, and follows the woman in the cool shadows of the servants' quarters. The main entrance is for paying clients and prima donnas only.

More stairs, these ones wooden and creaking, lead to the attics, where Isabelle is shown into a room with two beds and a small, cracked wardrobe. "The other maid is working," the woman says accusingly, as if it is Isabelle's fault that she is new, and cannot work.

Then the woman takes her through her schedule. Rise at dawn. Scrub the steps and sweep the entrance-way. Take breakfast in the servants' hall below where the performers live, then serve the breakfast to the performers. Sweep the stage in preparation for rehearsals. Tidy the backstage area, and make sure the auditorium is ready for the night's performance. Help serve lunch. Make sure the dressing rooms are ready, and made up with fresh flowers. Do the dormitories. Serve dinner. Stay out of the way during the performance, then tidy the stage in preparation for the next day. Go to bed.

Isabelle nods, pretending that she heard it all.

The woman purses her lips. "I will leave your uniform on your bed later today. Make sure you acquaint yourself with the rest of the Opera House, so that you can start work tomorrow morning."

"Yes, ma'am," Isabelle says quietly, sighing in relief as the woman finally leaves her alone. She walks to the small window at the side of the room, reaches on tip-toe to peer out at the sky. The gold of earlier has leached away, turned into the cerulean of daytime. She already misses the outside air, cool and fresh against her skin, the warmth of the sun beating on her back.

This place is worlds away from anything she's known before.

* * *

It is dark, like it always has been. He sits at his organ, trailing his elegant fingers over the ivory keys, too afraid to press one down. His muse left at the same time as his light, tearing his heart in two.

How is a broken man supposed to know how to fix himself?

It has been so long. He lifts his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. Why did he have to come back here? Here, in this very room was where he had first experienced hope. And it was here where that very hope was dashed against the cold, stone floor, because of course a monster isn't allowed to entertain thoughts of _hope. _A monster isn't allowed to love, and be loved in return. What an absurd thought.

He rises from the stool, feeling one again the aching loneliness wash over his heart. Then he looks at the entrance to the passageway, the one that will lead him up into Box Five. The one which he hasn't dared to set foot in these past three years.

Maybe it's time the Opera Ghost returned, he muses to himself as he approaches the yawning mouth of the tunnel. _Beware of the Phantom of the Opera. _

* * *

The letter falls from the ceiling with a crash of scenery. Creamy white parchment, sealed with a blood-red wax skull. Antoinette Giry shudders as she picks it up, ignoring the screams of the ballet girls as they point at the fallen backdrop.

It is taken to the managers' office, laid out on the table, the three words and two letters written in scrawling red ink scrutinised over and over again.

_I have returned._

_O.G._

"We thought he'd fled," Firmin's face is pale as a sheet, as he holds the letter in shaking hands.

Antoinette raises an eyebrow at him. "So did I. But now he's back, you had better obey his orders."

Andre, who turned puce before as white as his fellow manager glares at her. "I think we learned our lesson last time, dear Madame Giry."

"Just don't forget," she turns on her heel, her black skirts brushing the floor as she disappears through the open doorway.

Andre drops his head into his hands. "It was going so well," he groans.

"And that is why I must supervise you," the voice echoes through the wall, cold and forbidding, accompanied by a dark chuckle.

The two managers flee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! :) Next bit is up!

* * *

**Paris 1874**

**April**

_It's hard to be a bright light in a dim world_

* * *

"He's back," the door crashes open as Louise tumbles into the room in a mess of blonde hair and breathlessness.

"Who?" Isabelle is sitting on top of the dark grey blankets of her bed, propped up against the rough-hewn headboard, attempting to mend a hole in her apron with a sharp needle and thread that she borrowed from the wardrobe department.

"The Phantom of the Opera!" Louise lowers her voice, glancing around the room cautiously before crossing the room to sit on the edge of Isabelle's bed.

"Who's he?" Isabelle curses as she pricks her finger with her needle, a droplet of crimson blood staining the snow-white apron.

"You don't know? I thought everyone knew!" Louise looks horrified at her new friend's lack of knowledge.

"I did only arrive two weeks ago," Isabelle points out, finally casting off the thread that holds her apron together.

"But…I thought someone would have told you…" Louise takes a breath and glances around the room again, like someone who is sure they are being watched.

"Why are you frightened?" Isabelle tilts her head to one side, grey eyes narrowed in confusion.

"He could be here!" Louise hisses. "He haunts the Opera House, a ghost of a man in black evening clothes with a white mask concealing the left side of his face. They say his eyes burn with cold fire, and he knows all and sees all that goes on in this place."

"It's just rumours, Louise," Isabelle rolls her eyes. "Rumours made up by people who have far too much spare time on their hands."

Tears of frustration spring into Louise's dark blue eyes. "Isabelle, you don't understand! He was the one who brought down the chandelier three years ago, who kidnapped Christine Daae, who burnt the Opera House to the ground!"

Isabelle sighs at her almost-hysterical friend. "I still don't believe you, Louise. It's just a story."

Louise is about to begin a heated protest when an irate voice echoes up the stairs. "Louise? Isabelle? Why are you not cleaning the boxes?"

"We'd better go," Isabelle slides off the bed, picking up the bucket she left by the door. "I wouldn't be on _her_ bad side for anything."

* * *

He barely recognises anybody, he muses, searching the stage for a familiar face. There is Madame Giry, and Meg Giry, and a few chorus girls, but everyone else is new. At least the new Prima Donna can sing.

Her name is Lucrezia Baciani, from Italy. And he will admit, she does not sing half so badly as La Carlotta did all that time ago. He can still remember hearing the warbling of her off-key voice amplified through the halls of his lair, how there was nowhere in the Opera where he could escape from it.

That was until Christine came along…he rises silently, pads to the back of the box. He will not think of the beautiful soprano who claimed his heart, then shattered it with one fell swoop. If he does, he will go mad.

"I told you, that's the Phantom's box," a female voice hisses from outside. "You can't go in there! Isabelle!"

In the blink of an eye, he is back inside the tunnel, the door shutting a whisper before the external door flings open, revealing a girl holding a bucket. Curiosity freezes his feet to the floor; he watches out of the grill as she dumps the bucket with a huff.

"There's no-one here, Louise," she calls to the person standing outside. He can't help but notice the slight musical tone to her voice, the curl of her copper-streaked brown hair, the determination etched in every line of her.

It's been a long time since any person has dared to step foot in here.

She begins to polish the box rail, humming a tune under her breath.

"Isabelle, get out of there!" the other maid, Louise, says frantically.

"I'm sure _Monsieur le Fantome _would like his box clean just like everyone else," Isabelle seems defiant, glancing around the box as she moves onto dusting the handrails of the chairs. "It's so dusty in here." She resumes her humming, then starts to sing softly under her breath.

_C'est aujourd'hui dimanche,  
Tiens ma jolie maman  
Voici des roses blanches,  
Toi qui les aime tant  
Va quand je serai grand,  
J'achèterai au marchand  
Toutes ses roses blanches,  
Pour toi jolie maman_

He is so still he could be a statue. Her voice…it is not practised, not polished. But the talent is there, if not the range or the presence.

He shakes his head sharply, trying to jerk it out of the clouds. _I must not get into something like this again. _It would only end in more sorrow, and then where would he be?

* * *

**A/N **The song is called _Les Roses Blanches, _and translates roughly as this:

Today is Sunday,  
Here my beautiful mother  
Here white roses,  
That you love so much  
Go when I grow up,  
I buy from the store  
All of his white roses  
For you beautiful mother


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Disclaimer: **Forgot to add this before - of course POTO does not belong to me, it belongs to geniuses like Gaston Leroux and ALW...:)

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to reviewers! They make me smile!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_There is a crack in everything. __That's how the light gets in._

* * *

Antoinette Giry holds the candle aloft as she walks along the passageway, the flickering light throwing shadows on the stone walls. It is cold down here, but it is not that that sends shivers up her spine.

She's never liked going to see the Phantom. But since his return, his 'appearances' have been getting more and more rash, even going as far as to show himself, albeit briefly, to one of her ballet girls.

"Erik?" she calls as she reaches the stony shore of the underground lake. "Erik, are you here?"

His voice echoes around her. "What are you doing, Antoinette? Do you have a death wish?"

She scoffs. "You wouldn't dare kill me."

A soft chuckle is heard from the other side of the glassy, green water, then the splash of a pole. A boat appears out of the grey mist, Erik's tall, cloaked form standing at the back of it.

"Why are you here?" he asks as he steps out of the boat, offering her his hand.

She glares at him. "I'm here to tell you off about the incident with little Clemence Bonnet. You scared the life out of the poor girl, and now none of my ballet girls will concentrate during rehearsals as they are so terrified you'll appear."

He raises his visible eyebrow, dark gaze burning. "It is of no matter to me what your little ballet rats do, Antoinette."

"Don't do it again," she folds her arms.

"Of course not," he says, almost amiably if slightly sarcastic. "Now if that's all you have to say..."

She turns to go, her long brown plait swinging out behind her. "_Au revoir, _Erik."

"Wait, Antoinette," he calls after her.

"What?" she snaps, her back still towards him.

"Tell the idiots that run my theatre that they need to hire another maid. There is too much work for just Isabelle and Louise."

When her surprise causes her to look over her shoulder, he is gone.

_Since when did Erik know the names of the maids? _she wonders as she climbs the steps, her shoes against the stone ringing with finality.

* * *

The door to their attic room is shoved open, banging against the opposite wall. Isabelle and Louise leap to their feet as the housekeeper enters, followed by a girl with frizzy blonde hair springing out all over the place and a snub little nose.

"This is Maryse, the new maid," the housekeeper says, glaring at the two existing maids. "I expect you to show her the ropes. And Isabelle, _Messieurs _Andre and Firmin wish you to see them with all haste."

"Yes, _Madame," _the two girls say as the door shuts behind the housekeeper, leaving the bewildered-looking new girl standing alone in the centre of the room.

"I wonder what that's about," Isabelle ties on her neat apron. "I didn't know the managers knew that I exist."

"I was there when _Monsieur _Andre's assistant found _Madame _Michel," Maryse says timidly. Both Louise and Isabelle turn to look at her – she blushes fiercely.

"Go on," Louise says encouragingly. "What did he say?"

The girl lowers her eyes. "Something about _Le Fantome de l'Opera,_" she replies.

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "Really, they're being ridiculous now. I would've thought the managers would have had more sense."

"Isabelle," Louise says warningly.

"Louise," Isabelle mimics. "I'd better go down, then."

"See you later. Maryse, come with me and I'll sort your uniform."

* * *

The door to the managers' office is rich, polished mahogany, imposing to all below their station. Isabelle takes a breath, and knocks, the sound absorbed by the thick red carpet and painted walls.

"Who is it?" a voice calls from inside.

"Isabelle, the maid, _Monsieur,_" she replies.

There is a creak, and the door opens, revealing _Monsieur _Andre's assistant. He bestows a nervous smile on the maid, and holds open the door for her. "They are just through there," he points to another entryway, at the far end of the neat outer chamber, this door hanging open.

Isabelle carefully makes her way across the first room and through the door. Her first impression of the managers is that they are messy. Papers spill across the two rich wooden desks and a bottle of wine is open on the mantle above the fireplace, posters of operas from years before adorning the cream walls.

_Monsieur _Firmin sits behind his desk, _Monsieur _Andre hovering at his right shoulder. "_Mademoiselle," _Firmin says, acknowledging her presence.

"_Messieurs,"_ Isabelle dips down into a curtsey, bowing her head as befits a maid.

"We have received a note," _Monsieur _Andre says, his voice slightly wheezy and his grey hair and premature age lines giving the impression of a man old beyond his years.

"It concerns you," Firmin adds, holding out a piece of creamy parchment for Isabelle to read. She takes it, her hands shaking very slightly.

_Messieurs,_

_My box has been neglected for far too long. See to it that Mademoiselle Isabelle Moreau, one of your maids, cleans it once every week. Also, the third violin is out of tune. Pass this on to Monsieur Reyer with all my due respect._

_O.G._

Isabelle hands it back to the managers. She feels slightly dizzy.

"We cannot disobey the Opera Ghost," Andre says. "I hope you do not mind the extra duty, _Mademoiselle."_

"Of course not, _Monsieur._" Isabelle replies, bobbing another curtsey.

"You may go," Firmin dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

* * *

She sits down on the grand stairs of the Opera House, her face in her hands, black skirts spread out on the white marble. Warm afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows, gilding the golden statues and crystal candelabras with sparkling radiance.

_Le Fantome de l'Opera is not real, _she reminds herself.

But the note…the blood red ink on white parchment, the elegantly scrawling hand and the look of badly-hidden fear on both of the managers' faces sends doubt spiralling into her mind.

What if Louise was telling the truth all along?


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Author's Note: **This one is for FantomPhan33, who helped me with the idea for the end! Thank you!

* * *

_**Chapter 4**_

_Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light_

* * *

"_Mademoiselle,_" Isabelle approaches the chorus girl's dressing room, catching the sleeve of one of them with an imploring look in her eyes.

"Yes?" the girl in question turns around, flinging her dark hair over her shoulder, her green homespun costume of a poor farmer's daughter pooling on the floor around her.

"May I ask a favour?" Isabelle fiddles nervously with her sleeve. "I need to know something."

Intrigued now, the chorus girl leans forward. "Go on," she says.

"Can you tell me everything you know about the Phantom of the Opera?" Isabelle asks.

The chorus girl glances around, almost nervously, before looking Isabelle up and down. She seems to come to a decision. "Yes, I can. But we need to go somewhere else. It isn't safe here."

Isabelle heeds the girl, following her as she stands up, sweeps through the crowd of backstage hands, ballet dancers and wardrobe mistresses.

"What's your name?" she asks as she leads Isabelle up countless flights of stairs, twisting and turning as they ascend towards the roof.

"Isabelle."

"I'm Sabine," she pushes open a trapdoor that leads to a balcony, protruding over the back of the Opera. "Here'll be fine. Why do you want to know about him?"

Isabelle shrugged. "I was curious. And my fellow-maid was only spouting convoluted nonsense."

"Well, I'm probably the best person beside the Girys to say…" she pauses, almost pleased about the power her knowledge gives her.

"Who is he?"

"A genius," she replies simply. "He is a musician, a composer, an architect, an assassin, to name a few. He helped build this Opera House, and it is here he resides, deep in the bowels of the theatre, but no one dares to go there and find out if it's true. The only people who ever came out alive were Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Why did he hide?"

Sabine raises an eyebrow. "He has the _visage _of a monster, so they say. His own mother couldn't bear to look on him – I only got a glimpse during that performance of Don Juan Triumphant. It was _horrible._"

Isabelle feels her heart flutter with pity for the poor man forced to live in hiding because of his face. Without it, he would have been the most respected man in the world.

"He fell in love with Christine Daae," Sabine continues. "And spirited her away to his underground lair, but she rejected him for her rich, noble lover. She was such a sweet girl as well, but the time he was done with her, she was glancing over her shoulder at every corner."

"Thank you," Isabelle says suddenly, sickened by the thought.

Sabine folds her arms. "I want you to do something in return for the information," she states, her nervous excitement that came with her wealth of information suddenly replaced with a cool, calculating stare.

"Yes?" Isabelle clenches her hand in her black skirt, anxious.

"I want you to use the passage behind the mirror in the Prima Donna's dressing room, and find the Phantom's lair."

"What?" Isabelle cannot believe her ears. "_Mademoiselle, _you cannot be serious!"

"I want you to take something of his, so that I have proof that I've been down there and returned alive."

"_Mademoiselle _Sabine…" Isabelle tries to protest, but Sabine shoots her a cold glare.

"Do not make me regret telling you all my precious information, maid" she says, coldly, sweeping past Isabelle with the air of a haughty princess who will not deign to talk to a lowly servant.

Isabelle sighs. _Now look what I got myself into in my hunt for the truth. _

* * *

It is dark in the Opera House. No moonlight shines through the curtained windows, all people are asleep in their beds, held hostage in the world of dreams, safe until daylight once again rules the city.

A flickering candle is making its way along the passage to the dressing room of Lucrezia Baciani, which once belonged to Christine Daae and the famed La Carlotta.

Isabelle silently pushes the door open, steps into the room. It is so different from her bare, plain room upstairs which she shares with the other girls. This room is carpeted, flowers from admirers languishing in vases, their colours slowly fading with the passage of time.

Jewels are scattered about the dressing table, pearls and rubies and priceless gems that Isabelle cannot even name.

But she is not here to see the luxury. She pads across the room to the gilt-framed, full length mirror, runs trembling hands up and down the sides until she finds the catch. It is very small, and hard to miss if she hadn't been dealing with opening mirrors before.

The hidden doorway swings open soundlessly, the black tunnel forbidding and cold. Isabelle steels herself, sets her shoulders, and begins to walk, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor, the light of her candle sending flickering shadows across the walls.

Her teeth are chattering, and her heart is pounding. _The Phantom is not real. I will find nothing down there but old cellars._

There is a sudden hiss, an intake of breath. Isabelle stops dead, her free hand flying to her mouth in terror. "Who's there?" she calls.

A figure emerges from the shadows.

Isabelle stares into a face, covered on the left side by a white mask. The last coherent thought that crosses her mind is _well, I guess Louise was right, _before she crumples to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

Erik stares at the unconscious girl on the floor in-front of him. Why is she down here?

He kneels beside her, gathering her limp body up into his arms, her copper-brown curls spilling over the black of his cloak. She is so light, so delicate in his arms, a fragile, ethereal creature of light and beauty that is in complete juxtaposition to her stubborn, fierce nature, and complete disbelief in anything that seems out of the ordinary.

Strange child.

She must be returned to the world above, to her world where she belongs, a world from which he has been exiled, turned out by the cruelty of the creatures named humans.

He carries her swiftly up through the tunnels, back towards the Prima Donna's dressing room. Let her superiors find her there in the morning, he thinks grimly. That should put a stop to any other little adventures she might have planned.

The mirror creaks open again at his command, and, ignoring the stab of pain caused by the sight of this room, he lays her gently on the settle.

Her eyes flash open.

Dark eyes meet the clearest of greys.

"Who are you?" she breathes, her gaze lingering on his face.

"I am nobody," he says.

"You're the man they call the Phantom…" she trails off as her eyes are once again drawn to his mask.

He stares at her for a second. "Forget you ever saw me."

With a swirl of his cloak, he is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Disclaimer:** Phantom belongs to Leroux, Kay and ALW.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow._

* * *

But of course, she could not forget. Lying in her bed at night, she sees the white mask emerging out of the darkness, his dark eyes boring into hers. She remembers the swirl of his cloak, the musicality of his voice.

The thought of _Le Fantome _is driving her mad.

He is real. She met him. And she now knows that ghosts don't exist. But men masquerading as ghosts do.

_Masquerade…paper faces on parade…hide your face so the world will never find you…_

She remembers the story Sabine told her. What must it feel like to be rejected by the one person you love, because of what you look like? She shakes her head. Christine Daae was a foolish girl.

Why is she suddenly taking _Le Fantome's _side in all of this?

She has to speak with him again.

* * *

"_Monsieur?" _she calls, quietly. The theatre is deserted, dust sheets spread over the rich velvet chairs. The company have taken a few days to relax after the hectic run of _Romeo et Juliette, _and the housekeeper is using the opportunity to spring clean.

There is silence. Isabelle shakes her head. Of course he wouldn't be here, not when there's no one in the theatre. He'd be down…wherever he lives.

A low chuckle echoes around the box and a voice. "Speak of the devil and he will appear."

"Where are you?" Isabelle's head jerks around, her heart beating frantically.

"I'm here," his voice says behind her. "Or maybe here. Or here."

Each time, it comes from a different corner of the box. She drops her bucket, puts her hands over her ears. "Stop it!"

"My apologies, _mademoiselle,_" he sounds almost sincere.

"You're a man, not a ghost. Start behaving like one," she scolds, sitting down in one of the armchairs.

He laughs again, the sound sending shivers up her spine. His voice is right behind her. "Not many people dare to tell off the Opera Ghost."

His breath is on the back of her neck. She whips around and his face is inches from hers, the white mask almost glowing in the murk of the dully-lit box.

"Don't scare me like that," her hands fly to her chest.

"You are not one who is easily scared," he steps backwards, back into the shadows until she can only see that mask and those dark eyes, trained on her face.

"Why did you come out again?" she asks, sudden curiosity taking hold of her tongue. "You told me to forget about you."

She hears the rustle of his cloak as he shrugs. "Lack of company can get to a man sometimes. And I have a note."

"So am I to take over _Madame _Giry's role of delivering your infernal notes?" she rises and picks up her bucket.

"Since you are the keeper of my box," he remarks dryly, watching as she begins to clean the handrail, a copper-streaked curl escaping her cap to fall into her face. She makes a noise of frustration, lifting a polish-stained hand to move it behind her ear. She annoys him, this girl with her sarcastic comments and refusal to be frightened, but he can't seem to make himself angry at her.

His one shield is failing.

"I wanted to ask you something," she looks up at him suddenly.

He narrows his eyes at her. Questions are more trouble than they're worth.

"Do you still love Christine Daae?"

In a second, his hands are at her throat, and she's trying to push him away with no success and she can't breathe and there are spots at the edges of her vision…

"ISABELLE MOREAU!" the housekeeper's irate tone echoes up the stairwell. "You should be done in there!"

He releases her and she slides to the floor, tears trickling out of the corner of her eyes as she watches him stride towards the back of the box and disappear with a whirl of his cape. "Because I think she's very stupid," she croaks to the empty air.

She stands and straightens her apron, wincing at the pain in her neck.

It takes days for her hands to stop trembling.

* * *

How dare she? How dare she bring up…bring up…Christine…like that? His angel, the girl whom he'd loved with all his heart…the girl who'd _left _him…

But he can't help but here the words she'd said to herself as he'd stormed away down the passage.

_I think she was very stupid._

It wasn't intended as an insult, he decides once his temper cools. It was an observation, a conclusion…

Sitting down on his settle, he stares into the crackling fire. How could she say that after hearing the rumours? There is no doubt she's heard them, her fellow-maid Louise seems very well-informed.

After all this time…he seems to have happened upon the one person who will take his side in the matter of Christine Daae…


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **By the Light of a Candle

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **By the light of a candle, her home was set aflame. And by the light of a candle, she descended into darkness and brought her light to he who lived there.

**Disclaimer:** Phantom belongs to Leroux, Kay and ALW.

**A/N: **Thank you for all the lovely reviews and sorry about the wait! Life has been busy at the moment!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_"As we work to create light for others, we naturally light our own way."_

* * *

It is weeks later, the cast are rehearsing a new production of Mozart's _The Magic Flute. _The Phantom is being his usual self, dropping props and frightening the _corps de ballet_, but Isabelle hasn't heard from him since that fateful day when she dared to bring up Christine Daae.

The lamps have been dimmed, and she is the only one about. Louise had the afternoon off, visiting family, and Maryse is helping in the kitchen, taking over the task of a dismissed kitchen maid. Isabelle lugs this slopping bucket of water up the stairs, her mind drifting in tired daydreams.

She closes her eyes for one fraction of a second, and then her foot meets thin air and she is falling, tumbling head over heels, her body hitting the marble stairs of the foyer and the bucket dropping with a clang as she lands on the ground, breathing heavily as pain sears in her arm and chest.

She tries to sit up, but a wave of nausea rolls over her, and her ears are ringing. It hurts, oh God, it hurts.

A shadow is bending over her.

A white mask.

Why is he helping her?

Black gloved hands lift her as though she weighs nothing. Her mouth opens in a silent scream.

He doesn't apologise. Still holding her, he melts into the shadows and is gone.

Hours later, they find the upturned bucket, water leaking across the floor, but no Isabelle.

He's taken her, they whisper. The Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

She wakes to the crackle of a fire and a dull pain in her chest. Her eyelids are sticky, but she forces them open. _Where am I?_

Velvet curtains drape from the ceiling around this magnificent white bed, the swan headrest curling its gold beak towards the roof. White sheets, satin instead of the usual crisp, unyielding cotton, are beneath her and blue covers like the waters of a river over the top. Her arm is in some kind of sling, cradled to her torso.

She has seen this kind of luxury before, but never even dreamed of experiencing it herself.

There is a rustle, and the curtains retract in on themselves, pulling up into a hidden notch in the rock roof. He is there. She shrinks back against the pillows, wincing at the pain in her arm and ribs.

"I will not hurt you," he sounds exasperated.

"You did the last time we spoke," she argues. Annoyance kindles in his eyes and she bites her lip so hard as to draw blood. "Why have you brought me here?"

"An injured maid is no use to them," he gestures to the ceiling. "They would have dismissed you. And I find I like your cleaning skills."

Her confidence returning, she meets his eyes, raising her good hand to brush hair out of her face. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Surprise flashes across the unmasked side of his face, there and then gone, replaced by something intense that she cannot name. "What, may I ask, happened to your shoulders?"

"How…" she splutters, her face flaming into a blush.

Irritation creeps into his tone again. "I had to bind your wounds somehow, _mademoiselle. _Your modesty was preserved, I assure you that."

She wishes that she could sink into a hole and never return, never have to face those piercing dark eyes ever again. "It's none of your business."

"It did not look like a skin condition," he says. "More like you'd been burnt. If you would like, I will find a salve to help with the inflammation."

She stares at him. "Why are you being so kind? You tried to kill me only a few weeks ago!"

"I have my reasons," he pulls on a cord. "I will be back presently."

* * *

After a few days, she is deemed well enough to sit on his settle and watch him play the piano, his long, elegant fingers dancing over the keys. Often, he stops to write something down, then swears foully before crossing it out and playing something else, fragments of the old phrase embedded in the new.

As she watches, she finds words spilling to the edges of her tongue, out into the air between them. "The house where I worked caught fire," she says. He stops abruptly, doesn't turn to face her. "I…I…"

Suddenly, he is sitting opposite her, in an armchair, his eyes focussed on her face. He will listen to her, he will believe her, unlike the master who was as unyielding as a birch rod, cruel as one too.

"The mistress of my house was having an affair, and I came across her one day coming back through her mirror…she made me deliver notes when she could not go to her lover, and she sent me away one day, and I came back through the mirror and the house…the house was on fire. I was terrified, and I couldn't move. One of the footmen, Charles, he heard me screaming and ran in to rescue me. The master berated me for allowing myself to become trapped, and I…I told him everything, but he didn't believe me. He sacked me right on the spot."

"You were only telling the truth," he shakes his head. "The ignorance of men."

She looks up, blinking away tears. "I was only seventeen, and foolish with it. But men like that only hear what they want to hear…and, it cost me a job, a family."

"But you found this one, and I am grateful for it," he says, sincere. "Come, back to your room. You will need rest to heal."


End file.
